


Dissertation on the State of Bliss

by MlleClaudine



Series: Kim Legaspi/Kerry Weaver [13]
Category: E.R., ER (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kim leaves Chicago to start over in San Francisco. Takes place a few months after <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697951">"Funny (Not Much)."</a> Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!  Originally posted to FF.net on August 20, 2013.</p>
<p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissertation on the State of Bliss

Not for the first time, I marvel at the absurdities of airline logic. The only flight available today going directly from Chicago to San Francisco had been completely booked, so I wind up having to take one that has a layover in Minneapolis for no discernible reason. Still, looking around the terminal, I decide that there are worse places to get stuck. After my customary haggling at the ticketing counter, I wend my way back through Security to the mall and head for the wine bar my friend Rosemary had recommended.

I'd been skeptical -– after all, how good could a wine bar in an airport possibly be? -– but Surdyk's is a very pleasant surprise. Floor-to-ceiling shelves full of bottles of wine for sale take up an entire wall. There are comfortable looking barstools in front of a deli case filled with baguette sandwiches, salads and pastries ready to go, but I'm in for a long wait so I opt instead for a high-backed booth in the corner. On the wall of the booth is a small flat-screen television set, currently tuned to an overly perky brunette blathering away as she sloppily hacks up ingredients and tosses them into a pan. I switch off the TV and take advantage of the power outlet to charge my phone and laptop.

A cute blonde server in a vaguely retro airline-themed uniform comes over with water and the menu and winelist. Nice smile, friendly in a practiced way, obviously used to getting people in and out with streamlined efficiency.

Just as well. For once I'm not in the mood to flirt.

On Rosemary's suggestion, I order the salumi plate with five cheeses and a Bell's Two Hearted Ale. The beer arrives quickly in a frosty mug, amber with a thick foamy head. The first sip is smooth, almost creamy, melding into a balance of hoppy herbal citrusy flavors and a nicely bitter finish. Perfect.

After the crowds and hassle at O'Hare and the sardine-can flight, it's a genuine pleasure to have the place almost to myself. Content to savor my beer and listen to Bob Marley singing "Three Little Birds," I entertain myself by watching people pass back and forth, feeling no need to boot up my computer or pull out the trashy romance novel I'd picked up on the plane.

So I get a good long look at the woman who stands in the entranceway, slender figure silhouetted by the bright lights behind her. She has a word with the bartender at the counter, her rolling briefcase resting at her feet like a squat obedient dog. Moving with sure economy and grace, the bartender pours her a cocktail. Glass in hand, she surveys the space, then walks over to my table.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

The voice is low, melodiously modulated, with the faintest trace of an accent I can't immediately place. I let my gaze linger in appreciation. Shoulder-length glossy deep brown hair, touchably loose, not the immovable helmet that is the unfortunate default for so many businesswomen. Wide dark eyes, impossibly long lashes. Flawless pale olive skin, taut over the marvelous cheekbones and jawline. Full mouth, subtle shade of lipstick, confident smile. Bespoke charcoal suit, the jacket open over a burgundy silk shell, the pencil skirt stopping a couple inches above the knees to tastefully show off her legs, which totally deserve it. Her only jewelry is a ruby pendant, a blood-colored teardrop suspended from a fine gold chain and centered precisely over the hollow of her throat.

Don't mind at all.

I gesture for her to sit. Setting down her drink, she slides gracefully into the other side of the booth and extends a hand. "Sylvie Broussard."

Her hand is smooth, soft, warm. "Kim Legaspi."

"If I were the prying type, I'd ask why such a beautiful woman is sitting alone in an airport bar."

Despite myself, I smile. "But you're not the prying type?"

"Not at all. I was curious about you, though. I was standing behind you in line and couldn't help overhearing your exchange with the ticketing agent."

"So you followed me here?"

She shakes her head, her hair catching the light. "This is the only decent place in the mall. Finding you here was a happy coincidence."

I laugh. "Well, if you must know, I was playing airplane hopscotch." Her eyebrows arch in elegant query, so I elaborate. "If I don't have to be in a particular place at a particular time when I'm travelling, I deliberately bump myself off the passenger list to get free tickets, vouchers for hotels, whatever the airline offers. My friends and family are used to my turning up at odd hours or even on a different day than expected. But ever since 9/11 it's gotten a lot more complicated, and airlines aren't nearly as generous and conciliatory as they used to be. Might have to give up the game altogether."

"Your charms weren't exactly wasted on that nice young man."

The upcurving corner of that delicious mouth says she knows I wasn't the least bit interested in charming him. "Maybe, but the best I could wangle out of him was a meal credit and a seat on the 7:00 p. m."

Sylvie checks her watch, a quietly expensive Baume & Mercier. "Which means you have a four-hour wait."

"Not looking like such a bad thing right now."

She smiles down her nose into her drink, something clear brown with a lemon twist draped over the rim. Seeing my glance, she gives me a little salute with the glass. "Sazerac. They actually make them properly here."

I grimace reflexively. "Haven't had one of those since I went down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras when I was in college. Probably would have had a better experience with it if my friends and I hadn't already been sloshed on Hurricanes."

"Absinthe and rye didn't play nicely with the rum?"

"Not only did they not play nicely, they hardly had time to shake hands and introduce themselves around before getting forcibly ejected from the premises. First and last time I ever got that blind drunk. I don't remember much else from that trip but the hangover is indelibly etched into my sense memory."

"We're all young and stupid at some point in our lives."

"Yes. Then later we're not so young but still stupid."

"You don't strike me as stupid. Far from it."

"Smart people sometimes do stupid things."

The server brings my order. The platter is enormous, laden with gorgeous paper-thin slices of prosciutto, bressaola and soppressata, narrow wedges of cheese whose identities I only halfway register and instantly forget as the server recites them, a small square bowl of tiny cornichons and another of coarse mustard, a selection of beautifully fresh fruits, a pile of Marcona almonds. Balanced on one edge of the plate are lightly toasted slices of a slim baguette.

"You should eat the fig first, while it's still warm."

I give Sylvie the eyebrow but reach for the fig and pop it into my mouth. Sticky flesh yields unresistingly to my teeth, flooding my tastebuds with silkily melting pungent blue cheese and the sweet-spicy crunch of the candied walnut in the center. "Oh, wow. That's amazing."

She's watching me, amused. "I do like women who enjoy food."

Reaching for a piece of bread and smearing it generously with mustard, I drape it with bressaola and fold the whole thing around a cornichon. "Won't you please join me? There's no way I can finish all this. Well, actually I could, but then I wouldn't have room for dessert."

"Glad to see you have your priorities straight. Thank you, I will." She nibbles on an almond. "So was it love, or money?"

I swallow the last bit of my little sandwich, chasing it with a slug of beer. "Hmm?"

"When smart people do stupid things, it's almost always because of either love or money." Her gaze goes slightly unfocused in the distance, then homes back in on me. "In your case, I'm betting on love."

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Money isn't your problem. You're flying Business class. You're carrying a Coach bag; it's not new but a classic messenger like that would have set you back a pretty penny when you bought it. You've recently had a haircut that would cost $250 in a reputable salon. And unless I miss my guess, that's a vintage Vacheron Constantin. So you're comfortably well off and don't mind spending money, though not in an ostentatious way. How am I doing so far?"

I incline my head in acknowledgement. "Not bad. How did you know I'd had my hair cut?"

"The back of your neck is much paler than the rest of your skin. You've had long hair for quite a while." She smiles. "The new cut suits you."

"Thank you." I tear off a piece of rosy colored prosciutto and let it rest on my tongue; the fat melts almost instantly, and as I chew I relish the nutty, funky, buttery, salty flavors. "As it happens, I don't usually fly Business -– not that I can't afford it, but most of my trips are short and it offends my sensibilities to pay that much just for an hour or two's worth of extra legroom and free drinks. But I made a killing on the sale of my house in Chicago, so just this once I decided to splurge." Breaking off a corner of a baguette slice, I spread it with softened blue cheese and top it with a dab of quince paste. Sylvie fishes out a cornichon with a small fork. "And you're right about the watch, but I didn't buy it. It belonged to my oldest brother Jack."

" 'Belonged'?"

"He died when he was home on leave from the Army. Killed in a hit and run accident."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." I blink away sudden tears. "I've never had the strap shortened to fit me. It's a little silly, I know, but it makes it seem like I'm just borrowing it from him and any day he'll be back to bellow at me for messing with his stuff again."

"You were close."

"Very." I eat a few grapes along with a bite of an excellent Manchego. "But you're right, money is not my problem."

Sylvie takes the change of subject smoothly in stride. "And so you're literally and metaphorically cleaning house and moving on."

"For a number of reasons. Including love."

She holds out her drink. "Well, then. Here's to your new life."

I tink my glass against hers. "With no mistakes in it yet."

**Author's Note:**

> _Continuity note: Surdyk's Flights didn't actually open until September 2010, some eight years after this story is set, but Kim deserved better than the usual suspects in the food court. If you're ever passing through MSP, check it out; it's astonishingly good. And really, that fig with blue cheese is totally worth the price of the plate._


End file.
